Change
by pgrabia
Summary: House mulls over what has influenced the changes in himself and his life since his time in Mayfield. Post-Ep response to 6:17 Lockdown. SPOILERS Season 6 thus far. House-Wilson friendship.


**Disclaimer**: House M.D. belongs to David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network.

**A/N**: After watching episode 6:17 "Lockdown" I was frustrated once again with the writers of the show; they lack originality, boldness and consistency and in my humble opinion TPTB should get on their butts to do a heck of a lot better or turf them, because as much as I love House M.D. this has been the least interesting season of them all, followed by Season four (except for the House-Wilson-Amber arc). As for inconsistency, when House admitted that his unrequited love was LYDIA (I can't believe it--so why has he been mooning over Cuddy this season in that case?) I had to reconcile it somehow in my mind and heart because it made no sense to me and I was getting very angry! This is my attempt at doing just that! I'm pretty tired writing this so please keep that in mind when you're reading it;P Enjoy!

If you have any comments or reflections please tell me them! **Remember to review!** Thanks!

**Rated T**, even though I think K+ would probably be enough.

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**Change**

Lydia. Every time he thought her name it made him smile sadly. What he had had with her was doomed from the start; they both had known it when they allowed themselves to give in to the attraction between them. She had been a married woman with children living a typically suburban domestic life with another man; he had been an opiate-addicted, delusional, miserable patient at the psychiatric hospital where her sister-in-law and best friend had been a patient as well. She'd had a home and a future to go home to; he'd had a lonely space and an uncertain future facing him. He had fallen in love with her nearly the moment they met, and when it had ended, as of course it had to, he'd been left behind once again with a broken heart—not that he was unfamiliar with that. Yet in the short time they had had, she had made a very miserable period of his life livable. She had taught him something about himself and had changed him.

At the lowest point of his life where he'd wondered if he was truly incapable of loving and being loved, she had shown him that he had the ability to love after all. When he had thought that life wasn't worth living because his future held nothing in store for him than loneliness and pain, Lydia had given him a reason to keep getting up in the morning and trying to make something of his time there and had provided him with a hint of the happiness that could possibly exist beyond the asylum walls, that it did exist and he was, in fact, capable of feeling it. He and she had had to end, but the experience had left him with the hope that there was the slightest chance that he could feel that way again, and that had been enough to keep him trying and striving to get better, to stay sober and regain his sanity.

Coming home, his hope had been focused on a future with Lisa Cuddy; that had been before he'd found out about Lucas. The diagnostician had been crushed, but had known that he couldn't let it destroy him. He hadn't completely lost hope, either. Lucas Douglas was a conniving jerk that was using Cuddy's fears and insecurities to ensnare her, but he was bound to fail one day, and Cuddy, an intelligent woman, would see him for what he was. The diagnostician could have his chance with her again if she opened her eyes to see him as different from the man whom had made her life a circus for so many years. That is, if he still wanted to pursue her by then. He didn't want to be the second-best alternative compared to the private detective. He had his dignity to maintain as well.

Dr. Gregory House limped slowly and painfully to the elevator, passing staff, patients and visitors who were all happy to be able to move about again in the hospital now that the lockdown had been lifted. He pressed the call button and almost instantly the car arrived and the doors slid open. Putting more weight on his cane than he usually did he winced at moving again and stepped into the elevator. He was relieved that he was the only passenger; once the doors closed, cutting him off from the eyes of others for a few precious seconds, he allowed himself to drop his façade of impassivity and control. He slumped against the wall of the car and used his cane to press the 'two' button and then allowed his arm and his cane to drop tiredly to his side again. His face formed a grimace as the pain in his ruined thigh flared mercilessly into areas that had never been affected before a month ago.

There was definitely something wrong. The pain was spreading, his leg was getting noticeably weaker and that fact terrified him. He knew he would have to submit to the tests eventually. When he did he would have Wilson run the MRI. Wilson had been there with him throughout the original infarction when everybody else had abandoned him and if House was facing yet another health crisis with his leg he hoped his best friend would be there for him again. In truth, he was depending on it. The diagnostician couldn't allow himself to think about what would happen if Wilson chose to walk away the second time around; it was a possibility. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge since then, new hurts and frustrations and stress that had formed between them. Also, the oncologist had walked away once before. The first time doing something was always the most difficult; successive times became increasingly easier. If that was true for serial killers and adulterers, then it certainly applied here (There was the fact that Wilson _was_ an adulterer to factor in as well).

House didn't want to find out what was wrong with him until he absolutely had to. It was an irrational mindset, he knew, but that's just the way it was.

When the elevator came to a stop House quickly stood up again, gritting his teeth against the pain that Ibuprofen didn't really touch anymore, and forced as impassive of an expression as he could manage. Once the doors slid open, there would be dozens of eyes watching him again.

The doors opened and House limped off, cursing softly at the pain, feeling nauseous from it. He kept his gaze down, disengaging from the people around him as much as he could. He headed for his office. Inside he turned on the light; his team must have headed home as soon as they were allowed to leave the hospital. That was a good thing, because he could let some of his guard down again. It was exhausting to keep up the act.

Going to his desk he opened the top drawer and pulled out his bottle of prescription strength ibuprofen; he unscrewed the cap and shook one into his hand. That was the most he was 'permitted' to take so soon after his last dose, but he knew it wouldn't be enough. He shook out one more pill and then dry-swallowed them. He put the cap on the bottle and threw it back into the drawer, slamming the drawer shut with a frustrated 'bang'. It was times like this that his craving for Vicodin was at its strongest. He wasn't certain that at that moment, if someone offered him some of the powerful painkiller, he would be able to refuse it. That terrified him, too.

"Taking your frustrations out on the desk again?" a familiar voice said from just inside the door of his office. House looked up at Wilson. The oncologist had his coat on and held his briefcase.

"Better than on my team," House muttered softly, his words missing the normal acidity and sarcasm they usually held. This was not lost on his best friend. Wilson's bushy brown eyebrows knit together in a frown of concern. He said nothing in response, knowing that if he wanted to know what was wrong with the older man the indirect approach was more effective at drawing the information out.

"Ready to go home?" the oncologist asked.

Nodding, the diagnostician limped heavily over to the coat rack, grabbing his jacket and backpack. Wilson had noticed recently that his friend's limp had become more pronounced and he had gone back to using his cane more and more lately, even at home. House caught him looking at his leg.

"It's fine," the older man said, answering the younger man's unspoken question. They left the office and House locked up. He knew that Wilson had been watching him more than usual and he figured it had to do with his leg. House had avoided even talking about it until just now because he really didn't want to endure Wilson's mothering; it would only remind him that something was indeed wrong and needed to be tended to. He was more at ease living in denial.

"Of course," Wilson responded sardonically, "because you always limp like you're running in a one-legged race. Breakthrough pain?"

"Yeah," the diagnostician lied, wanting the subject to be dropped. He was too tired and in too much pain to be dealing with his friend's fretting. "I'll wrap it in a heating pad when we get home."

Wilson didn't respond to that and House hoped that he was satisfied with that answer for now.

"Interesting evening," the oncologist commented lamely as they stopped at the elevator and waited for a car to arrive. Wilson knew all too well that there was something more to House's leg problem than the older man was letting on. That was typical of him. House would joke around about his disability or use it as a bargaining chip when he needed to but when it came down to actually talking about it he would clam up and keep his problems to himself until a meltdown occurred and he couldn't hide from the truth anymore. Nagging him would do no good, and quite frankly he was too tired to get into it with the diagnostician just now.

"Lousy evening," House grunted, his frown deepening. Watching a person die whose case he had refused to take had that kind of effect on his perspective of the events.

They stepped onto the elevator and rode it down to the lobby in silence. Neither of them was in the mood to talk.

As they passed by the clinic, House looked into Cuddy's office and came to a stop. The beautiful Dean of Medicine was on the phone, sitting at her desk, probably tying up loose ends from the lockdown before going home to Lucas and Rachel. Wilson had taken two or three steps before he realized the older man was no longer with him. He back-stepped to stand next to him.

"Wilson," House said almost wistfully, and it sent a shiver down the oncologist's spine, "do you really believe people can change?"

Wilson had no idea where this was leading. "Uh, yeah. I do. Why do you ask, House?"

The older man shrugged and then asked, "Have I changed?"

At that the oncologist took a chance and put an encouraging hand on House's shoulder. When the diagnostician didn't brush it off, he knew there was a lot more going on with him than just his leg.

"Yes, yes I'd say you have," Wilson told him with a nod. He withdrew his hand and House looked at him with curious and imploring eyes that unnerved him. "Not huge, monumental change, but small steps at a time you have."

House nodded towards Cuddy's office and asked softly, "Do you think she'll ever acknowledge it?"

To that question Wilson had no answer, but he suspected House did and was simply asking him to see what his opinion was.

"As long as she keeps her eyes on Lucas," was the oncologist's replied, "I don't think she will. Nobody likes to admit when they've been blind to the truth." He paused and then asked, "Are you _sure _you're okay?"

House nodded once and then continued towards the main doors with Wilson beside him.

"People and change," House muttered as they exited through the glass doors. "Guess I was wrong. Go figure. I'm hungry—you're buying the beer and pizza."

"There are some things that never change," Wilson answered with a sigh.


End file.
